


A Bond in Wood and Stone

by ConvenientAlias



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Accidental Bonding, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Soul Bond, Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-08-09 23:34:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20125675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConvenientAlias/pseuds/ConvenientAlias
Summary: “Excuse me, Thorin, I don’t mean to pry, but you do realize that Prince Legolas is still in that barrel with you.”or, the one where Thorin and Legolas form an accidental soulbond.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wednesday](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wednesday/gifts).

An elven soulbond is formed simply enough, but not so simply that it happens every day. For such a soulbond to form requires ingredients both physical and spiritual. The physical matter: two elves, usually, and four other ingredients—wood, water, blood, and wine. The spiritual: That the souls of these two shall have a certain compatibility, and that they shall share companionship such that they would be willing to die for each other.

So, what many elves long for is simple enough in some ways, yet not so easy to achieve. Even elves who love each other, and who marry in formal ritual, might not be compatible, or might despite their love not be willing to die for each other, even if the two should both believe themselves willing from the depths of their heart. So it is: Marriage ceremonies among the elves invoke the wood, the water, the blood, and the wine, and sometimes the soulbond is formed and sometimes it is not. Elves, of course, say they do not believe those who do have soulbonds to necessarily be better or braver people… but elves often lie despite their belief in honor, and truthfully, there are few elves who do not want a soulbond not merely for the sake of companionship but also for the sake of their own prestige.

Legolas Greenleaf, however, was one of these few. Or at least he claimed to be.

“And I do not see why you would want one, Tauriel,” he said. They were perched in one of Mirkwood’s thousand ancient trees, on the lookout for intruders, but it had been a quiet day, and so they had begun to talk. “The old tales of soulbonds are painful—in how many cases do you hear of one soulmate using the bond to hurt the other? Besides, a warrior should be willing to die for many things: for honor, for his people, for his homeland. Every day we risk our lives. That does not mean that two people ought to love each other to exclusion of all else.”

“That is not what a soulbond is,” Tauriel insisted. “Only two people walking on the same path, eternally bound together. Not two people obsessed with each other.”

Legolas huffed. “That’s what philosophers say.”

Tauriel gave him one of her patient looks, and he turned away. He knew what she was thinking. That he had for too long watched his father in mourning for his mother, so hurt that he refused to speak of her, slowly turned bitter by the grief of a soulbond broken. Had Tauriel told him this to his face, he could have rebutted her. He knew his father had many other reasons for his bitterness than a broken soulbond, besides which, he had seen enough healthy soulbonds in his time to know they were possible. But it was an old argument, this one, which they were only retreading halfheartedly in order to pass the time, and so Tauriel withheld her judgment.

Instead she said, “Well, it’s as well that you do not want a soulbond, Legolas. Otherwise you would be like all the other warriors in this forest and come begging me to try the ritual.” Quite a few elves had asked Tauriel to attempt a soulbond with them in her time, and all of them had been refused.

Legolas snorted. As if he needed a soulbond to know he could trust Tauriel to have his back, or to know she was a true friend. “I doubt I would ever be like one of them.”

“True. You are too independent; too much yourself.” The look she gave him was both fond and a little sad. He was about to protest and ask her what she meant when a sound interrupted their banter. A signal from another warrior—intruders had been spotted after all, and the corner of the forest where they had been spotted was not far away.

The signal also mentioned spiders.

“Enough chatter, then,” Legolas said, leaping to his feet. But he need not have even spoken. Tauriel was already up and away, racing ahead to the designated location. He ran after her, feet sure over branch and vine. There was no inch of this forest he did not know; he barely needed to look where he was going.

The corner of the forest where they were headed was dark indeed, and terribly sick (though it sometimes seemed to Legolas that all of Mirkwood was slowly sickening). And at the moment it was completely infested with spiders.

His bow was like an extension of his arm—slinging arrows from it as easy as tossing pebbles. He sliced threw spiders as easily as another man might slice through the webs. Perhaps more so, these webs being as thick and sticky as they were. (He didn’t like how they were infecting his forest, no, he didn’t. No one did.) One, two, three… And through the melee he could hear the voices and the blundering of the intruders that were the initial reason for the alert.

The dwarves.

He slid down a vine and under one of the more aggressive spiders—could kill it easily, but why waste the time—and then to his feet before the leader of the dwarves, bow out, arrow drawn. Pointed for the dwarf’s neck. It would be a clean death if he had to follow through. And he would.

“Do not think I won’t kill you, dwarf,” he warned. “It would be my pleasure.”

The dwarf looked at him.

Around the clearing, Legolas’ troops were gathering. They outnumbered the dwarves greatly, and they all carried weapons—some bows and arrows, some swords or, like Tauriel, knives. They were all fresh and ready to fight, and all on their home territory. The dwarf lowered his gaze slightly, in grudging submission.

His attitude indicated that if Legolas were alone, he would have fought him to the death rather than surrender. He would have been cowed by no threat. But that didn’t matter. Legolas was a prince in Mirkwood, and he and his fellow warriors guarded their home judiciously. They would never have been alone, but always covered each other’s backs, protected each other. There was no world where this dwarf would have had a chance. Whoever he was.

“Search them,” Legolas ordered, noting Tauriel’s return to the group with a scrawny extra. “Take their weapons. We’ll bring them to my father.”

As he moved on to have a look at the rest of the dwarves, he could feel the leader’s gaze following him, solidly resentful, anger thrusting like iron at his back. He made sure to ignore it. And even on the way back to their halls, where he by necessity walked beside the dwarf leader at the front of the party, he studiously ignored him.

The dwarf leader not having spoken a single word to him, he didn’t really consider this rude, but only responding in kind.

* * *

A dwarven soulbond is much like an elven soulbond, though the two races will argue ad infinitem that they are completely and utterly different. Really the main difference is in the physical ingredients: A dwarven soulbond requires two dwarves rather than elves, and while it still requires blood and water, it also requires stone and metal—preferably gold, though cruder metals are said to have sufficed in some cases. But the spiritual ingredients are largely the same, with one key difference: while it is still required that the participants being willing to die for each other, at least one participant must also be both willing and able to offer the other a home.

For this reason, in the years since the exile from Erebor, few soulbonds had been formed among Thorin Oakenshield’s people. Even those who had settled felt in their souls a sense of transience, like they might return to Erebor on a moment’s notice—if a king should return under the mountain, of course they would get up and follow him and leave all they had behind. All they had was in their eyes waste and loss. With no sense of permanence in their lives, how could they form a soulbond? It was impossible.

Thorin was no exception to this rule. He longed for a soulmate as he longed for Erebor, as he longed for his kingship. And all of these things were completely out of reach to him, and had been for years.

It was no wonder, perhaps, that he had developed a temper.

“I will never trust the word of Thranduil,” he cried out, voice echoing throughout the emptiness of the elven halls. (And all made of wood, barely any of stone and metal, and barely decorated at all—elves understood nothing of the beauty of craft, not as dwarves did, so why did they get to keep their palace?) “You left my people to face dragon fire alone!”

Thranduil sighed. He did not sound angry at Thorin’s words. Mostly, he sounded bored, though Thorin didn’t doubt he was seething beneath that calm front. Were he to doubt, he could read the truth in the reaction of Thranduil’s son, the arrogant prince—his face was calm too, but out of the corner of his eye, Thorin could see his fists were clenched.

If he could be so outraged by Thorin’s words, he should have been more outraged by the actions that had provoked them. He was young, but not so young that he had not been around all those years ago. Thorin remembered. Barely—the prince had wielded less authority in diplomacy than he clearly did in patrolling the forest—but he had been there, watching. He had not spoken on the dwarves’ behalf. No one had spoken on the dwarves’ behalf.

The elves of Mirkwood were all selfish, cowardly, dishonest people. That was why Thorin would never give a single one of them a single coin from Erebor, even if he trusted them to help him and his people in return. Which he didn’t.

Thranduil stepped forward, to his side. “Do not speak to me of dragon fire, dwarf.” The glamour receded on his face, showing burn marks.

Thorin didn’t look away. He’d seen the like many times on his own people. And worse on their corpses.

“I have faced the serpents of the North,” Thranduil said. He stepped back, glamour returning. “I told your father what his greed would bring, and he ignored me. You are just like him.”

Abruptly, Thorin felt his arms clasped by guards—they had approached, silent as elves were wont to be, while he had listened to Thranduil. He did not fight them. He had more dignity than that.

“Stay here, if you will,” Thranduil said, “and rot. A hundred years is a mere blink in the life of an elf. I’m patient. I can wait.”

So Thorin was dragged away, and not fighting the guards took a good deal of effort. All his people were in cells, and he was vastly outnumbered. Still, he would have liked to get in a few futile punches, especially when he realized he and the guards were being followed by the young elven prince.

“You were foolish to speak to father that way,” the prince said. “Now he is angry with you.”

“Thranduil of Mirkwood has always hated dwarves,” Thorin said shortly. “It did not matter what I said to him. He would have hated me anyhow.”

Why was he even bothering explaining himself? He cursed himself under his breath; indulging an elf in conversation.

“Father can be generous to those who show the proper respect,” the prince said. “I can get you another meeting, dwarf, when his temper has cooled. And when that time comes, you should speak to him more graciously. His request was not unreasonable.”

“Your father—your king—wants to demand our gold at swordpoint,” Thorin said. “But we dwarves of Erebor have faced worse enemies than him. We will not be cowed.”

The prince shook his head. As he turned to leave Thorin to the guards, Thorin asked, “And when will the king’s temper have cooled?” Not that he would ever be so low as to beg pardon, but… just so he could make plans, so he could…

“You might try again in a month,” the prince suggested.

That would be long past Durin’s Day already. “In a century, then,” Thorin said, “as your father has already stated. Now begone and do not hassle me, little prince.”

The prince gave Thorin a look that indicated his outrage at being called little by a dwarf and simultaneously his lack of concern at anything Thorin might say, Thorin being utterly beneath him and irrelevant. With that he left, and Thorin strained to hear his footsteps and could not, and felt oddly bereft.

The feeling lasted as he sat in his cell, brooding over his company’s misfortune. They had first had Bombur fall in the stream, then fallen prey to the spiders, and now, minus a thief, were prisoners of the wretched elves of Mirkwood. It was enough to make one furious. Yet he felt oddly melancholy. These halls reminded him of begging Mirkwood for aid, begging Thranduil for aid. Once the elves of Mirkwood and the dwarves of Erebor had been friends, and now Thorin could only be treated as a prisoner here, as an enemy.

It was a lonely, lonely thing. And so he sat in his cell, soul reaching out into the emptiness. And so he sat until the thief arrived at last to set him and his company free, and the work of escape cast such thoughts from his mind.

* * *

Legolas was informed of the orc attack before he learned that the dwarves had escaped—after all, he was a patrol member, not a guard in the castle. But he knew both occurrences before he arrived on the scene, which was already complete havoc. There were more orcs than Legolas had imagined—they seemed to be gaining in strength lately, which was disconcerting—and wargs, too, though fortunately no spiders in the mix. The dwarves were all in the river in barrels for some reason, and were fighting the orcs with a height disadvantage, though they were stubbornly holding their own with the help of the few elves that had originally pursued them in order to recapture them. At this rate, they wouldn’t last long, though. They were pinned against a grate, an easy target…

Of course, the grate also held them in place for the elves to take them in, but at this rate they were likely to get slaughtered before that could happen. Legolas decided they could as easily pursue the dwarves later, as long as they stayed alive.

(At any rate, it went against the grain to let them all get picked off by orc arrows.)

He vaulted to the top of the wall, where the lever to open the grate was. There he was met by an orc immediately, and a competent one at that. At close quarters like this he was forced to use his sword rather than his bow and arrows, which did not leave him at an advantage. The orc was stronger, and though Legolas thought he was not as skilled, he still kept Legolas busy for a minute, and by the time Legolas had killed him, two more orcs were there to take his place.

He could take it, of course. Though it would be better if Tauriel would get here to help… Gritting his teeth, he sprang away from the two orcs to get some distance, unfortunately putting distance between himself and the levers as well. But this at least allowed him to use his bow, and he took out one of the orcs quickly and easily. The other one he missed by a bare inch, and it advanced on him. He dodged its strikes, slid between its legs, and almost grabbed the lever. But now there was a warg there, growling up at him. He shot it in the eye, swiveled…

And found himself facing Thorin Oakenshield’s back. He couldn’t believe he’d been distracted enough not to notice the dwarf coming up here, but the aid was appreciated, though to be fair, Thorin certainly had his reasons to help—the dwarves needed that lever down. Still.

As Thorin blocked strike after strike from another orc, Legolas dove for the lever and pushed it. The grate rose, and the barrels bobbed under the arch one by one. With a triumphant smile, he leisurely shot the orc Thorin was fighting, grabbed Thorin by the arm, and hurled him off the wall and into an empty barrel.

He turned back to the battle, then—and there was Tauriel at last, hurrying down with a couple other warriors in tow. This battle would soon come to its conclusion, and it would not be in the orcs’ favor. It never would be, in Mirkwood. The elves would never allow the orcs to claim a victory here, to kill their kinsmen or their guests.

And it was as these thoughts passed through Legolas’ mind that he spotted a danger. An orc bow, pointed at Thorin Oakenshield, who was distracted by another. Legolas couldn’t reach the archer on time, but in a split second he measured the distance between the wall and Thorin’s barrel—still not too great—and, accounting for the speed at which it was moving, hurled himself towards it at full tilt.

The arrow hit him in the thigh; ripping pain. He would have fallen into the river and had to fish himself out if Thorin hadn’t caught him by the leg and dragged him down into the barrel with him.

He groaned; then, hearing the sound and feeling it too pitiful, clenched his jaw. Orc arrows were made of flint, and they were often barbed, and near always carried Morgul dark magic. Elf arrows were made for a neat kill, but orc arrows were made to inflict pain and to sicken.

“Fool of an elf,” Thorin growled. “That arrow would never have hit me, and now you’re in the way. And Thranduil will have my head for letting his son get injured on my behalf. Two thousand years ought to be enough to teach one the idiocy of recklessness!”

“I’ll not be tutored by an elf,” Legolas said, fighting to keep his voice steady. “Help me up. I still have my bow and arrows, and there are plenty of orcs left to kill.”

Thorin scoffed.

So it was too much to expect help from him. Legolas tried to stand up by himself, but the pain in his thigh hindered him, and he stumbled back, almost capsizing the barrel. Perhaps it would be better for him to sit for now.

But he couldn’t rest. Sounds of battle still raged outside, and while Tauriel doubtless had everything handled, Legolas couldn’t leave her to fight alone. Only it would be tricky. The barrel was so unsteady, though it was sturdy for a vessel soaked with river water on the outside and long stained by wine on the inside. It would be hard for Legolas to get out, and Thorin would not help him to fight from within…

His mind whirled. Abruptly, Thorin’s hand clapped down on his shoulder. “Sit down. I should get that arrow head out of your leg, and wrap the wound. Then you can fight if you want.”

By then, the fight would probably be over and done with. But Legolas had to admit he wouldn’t be much help in his current state. Gritting his teeth against embarrassment as well as pain, he said, “Very well, Oakenshield. Do your worst.”

“You’ll have to lend me one of your knives,” Thorin said.

After only a moment’s hesitation, Legolas acquiesced. It was a bit late to worry about the wisdom of giving a dwarf weapons.

So Thorin sized up Legolas’s wound. He pulled bloodied cloth away from it, making Legolas gasp as it snagged and the arrow shifted in his flesh. Then, bracing one hand against Legolas’s thigh, he readied the knife.

Legolas would later analyze and reanalyze this moment. The smell of river water and ancient wines mingled with the more robust scent of fresh blood, the pain pulsing around the flint arrowhead in his wound, the glint of sunlight off the metal knife. His own hands pressed against the wood of the barrel, his determination that he would stay still no matter how much it hurt. In that moment he felt more annoyance than fear—he thought to himself that as soon as the wound was taken care of and the orcs gone, he would haul Thorin and his obnoxious company straight back home to Mirkwood’s halls and throw them back in their cells. There they could stay for the next century or even the next millennium, and as far as he was concerned, it would be for the best. In their cells they wouldn’t cause trouble for law-abiding elves; and, for that matter, they’d be far safer themselves, far away from orcs and dragon fire… Thorin, he thought, would never forgive him, but he’d do it nonetheless.

Then the blade touched Legolas’s flesh, blood smearing metal, and a shock ran through his body. He heard a voice crying out and was surprised to realize it was not his but Thorin’s, even though it expressed the same thing he was feeling—something like lightning, only it ran not through his body but through his mind…

As the pain and the shock combined, his eyes briefly met Thorin’s. His eyes had widened—they were open wider than Legolas had ever seen them—and, Legolas thought deliriously, he had never noticed before that they were the most glorious blue! As beautiful as the sky, he thought, and with this thought, he promptly fainted.

* * *

Thorin Oakenshield, somewhat stupefied, clasped the young prince’s head. “Elf.” The prince did not waken. “Elf!”

Having barked out the word, he felt suddenly conspicuous. He looked up. His companions were still fighting, covering for him as they had been for the past couple minutes. On shore, the orcs were largely occupied by the elves swarming them. No one was looking.

He waited a long moment for his hands to stop trembling. Then he picked up the knife again, removed the arrow from the prince’s leg, and bound the wound tight with cloth. It would hold until the wound could be given better care.

He felt the prince’s pulse, and it shivered through his body like an aftershock. There was something comforting about touching the prince’s skin—something important about it, about the prince in general—and he knew, quietly and certainly what had happened to him. To him and the prince both.

Though he was not sure how he would deal with it.

In any case, for now his company was more important. He shoved the prince’s body down into the barrel and went back to paddling with the stream, speeding up his voyage down the river. First, to get them away from the orcs and the elves. Then they would figure out this conundrum together.


	2. Chapter 2

“I don’t know what surprises me more,” Thranduil remarked. “That my son would allow himself to be shot by an orc, or that you, Tauriel, would allow him to be kidnapped by a pack of ragamuffin dwarves.”

Tauriel winced at the king’s words. To be honest, though, she was more horrified by her own failure than by anything he could say. Legolas was her brother in arms, and now he was missing. The last she had seen of him was a glimpse of that wretch of a king Thorin Oakenshield shoving his head down into the barrel—he had appeared to be unconscious, and Tauriel would have run to him, but there had been orcs in the way, and by the time the path was cleared, the company had already drifted too far down the river for her or the other elves to catch up. So now he was in the hands of an enemy, and not just any enemy. She thought of the look in Oakenshield’s eyes when he had screamed his rage at Thranduil in their formal meeting, and clenched her fists.

“It is an unacceptable failure,” she said in a low voice, eyes on the floor. “I’m afraid we underestimated the dwarves.” She, in particular, had allowed her to empathize with them, for the sake of one pretty young dwarven prince. “We will not do so again.”

“No,” Thranduil said, “we won’t.”

He looked at her. “We”, he’d said. So he took some of the blame for this incident on his own shoulders. How he must worry about his missing son! Tauriel’s own pain was great enough, but his must, she thought, be far greater.

Thranduil sighed. Then he leaned forward. “Take twenty—no, thirty—of our best. There is darkness rising in the forest, we need most of our warriors here. But if you need more, send back to me, and I will send you whatever you need. Bring me back my son, and as for the dwarves, you may kill them or recapture them, but you will not allow them to enter Erebor. They have made a bad enemy in me, and I will not allow them any victories. In the past they’ve known the rage of dragon fire. Now they will know the fury of the wood.” He steepled his fingers. “Go now.”

Tauriel bowed. “Yes, my king.”

She left to gather her troops, already thinking which ones would be best suited for the task. For infiltrating Lake-town, rescuing a prince, and defeating the dwarves of Erebor.

* * *

Thorin had been paddling down the river for more than an hour now, trying his best not to kick the elven prince awake. Said prince seemed to be in an enchanted slumber, which Thorin did not know how to feel about—on the one hand, he was shocked enough that he would have liked to have the luxury of fainting himself; on the other hand, if this was the effect of the Morgul arrow, it was very worrying. Morgul blades were very dangerous, and Thorin didn’t like to think that he’d both gained and lost a soulmate in one swoop, though it was odd to think that he’d gained one at all. Indeed, he preferred not to think about either subject, and instead focused on paddling forward, even though at this point in the river, the current did most of the work for him.

Now, if a dwarf and a human had both been trying to float down the river in the same barrel, the barrel would have been in dire straits, and floated low in the water. However, elves are despite their height much lighter than Men, and the prince himself was very light indeed. When Thorin recalled the way he had slid down vines in the forest or danced around orcs in battle, light as a feather on the breeze, he found himself inspired to paddle harder and harder. Half to run away from such thoughts, and half to exhaust the adrenalin that built up in his blood. His heart was pounding fast at the prince’s very nearness. It was a ridiculous state to be in. People told stories, of course, of the effects of soulbonds, and they always sounded much like this—the passionate waves of emotion, the effect of the other’s presence almost tangible—but in stories it all sounded very poetic, whereas for Thorin it seemed more of a nuisance. Why should he feel the urge to ponder on how the light played on the young prince’s hair or on his skin? Why should he want to cease his paddling and take the prince in his arms and—no, it made no sense, and it infuriated him.

When he and the company had been paddling for this time, for more than an hour, Master Bilbo Baggins at last got up the courage to make a salient remark. “Excuse me, Thorin, I don’t mean to pry, but you do realize that Prince Legolas is still in your barrel with you.”

Legolas. Hm.

Thorin had made a point of forgetting all of the elves’ names in Mirkwood no matter how many times they were mentioned. At this point, though, not knowing the prince’s name would be altogether inconvenient, so he was relieved to learn it. Legolas. He didn’t know enough Elvish to grasp the meaning of the name, but the sound of it was somehow wispy and substantial at once, and so it suited the young prince—but, Thorin warned himself, he had to stop pondering such things. A name was a name. He could use it without overthinking it, surely.

In any case, Bilbo’s comment had drawn the attention of the other dwarves. Half of them hadn’t noticed Legolas, crammed into the bottom of the barrel like an extra sardine squeezed into a can; the other half had merely been hoping someone else would mention it first, and were now happily hoping Thorin would offer an explanation.

Thorin crossed his arms, giving up on paddling for the moment. “He fell unconscious after taking an arrow meant for me. I could hardly leave him on the shore for the orcs.”

“You could,” Dwalin disagreed. “His own folk would have taken care of him. They stole most of the fun of the orc-fighting from us already."

Balin cleared his throat. “Yes, well… perhaps you’re right, and it would have been dangerous for him there. You can leave him by the side of the river here, and his people will find him right enough. No orcs here.”

“There could be some out of sight,” Thorin said.

“There could be, but it does not seem likely. And if we take the prince out of Mirkwood—and we are very near its borders—King Thranduil will be very angry, even if we send him right back.”

Thorin’s hackles rose. “We will not be sending him back. He is mine.”

There was a moment of astounded silence.

Then, a chaos of noise.

“Yours—”

“What do you mean, yours?”

“You can’t mean…”

“Thorin, what do you intend to…”

“If you…”

“Quiet,” Thorin boomed. When they had all settled down, he announced, “Prince Legolas is my soulmate. We will be taking him with us.”

The silence that fell now was shocked as well, and more profoundly so. Oin was the first to break it. “We have not heard of a dwarven soulbond in decades. Or at least, I have not.”

“Nor I,” Gloin backed him up, and the whole company agreed with them.

“So we have not heard of any lately. They haven’t become impossible—clearly, since I have now acquired one,” Thorin said irritatedly.

Balin cleared his throat. “Your majesty, may I ask what… symptoms of a soulbond you are currently experiencing? It is possible you are mistaken.”

“I am not mistaken.”

“Still…”

“I feel an urge to touch him, to stay near him,” Thorin said gruffly, “as I did not feel before, and a sense that he is somehow… significant. I would not say it is as strong as my parents’ bond, perhaps, and I would not say I feel love, but it is something, and it is very odd. And when it happened to me there was a shock in my body as if I had been hit by lightning. He felt it too—there’s a reason he’s knocked out.” If it wasn’t the Morgul blade’s fault, which Thorin devoutly hoped it wasn’t.

“And do you feel any of the prince’s emotions?” Balin pressed. “Or, that he is trying to communicate with you?”

“He is unconscious and feeling nothing currently, for which I am grateful—it is enough to take in already.”

“He can’t be your soulmate,” Dwalin said. “He’s an elf.”

“I noticed. Do you think I’m happy about this? I’m not, but it is a soulbond nonetheless, and I will honor it.”

The company all glanced at each other dubiously. Some doubting Thorin’s testimony, some his sanity, some their own reality. Fili ventured to say, “Maybe he’s not an elf at all. Maybe he’s secretly a dwarf.”

Thorin looked at him. Golden hair, pale skin, ethereal thinness and lightness of body… and how he had moved earlier, limbs flowing like leaves in the wind… He cleared his throat. “That seems unlikely.”

“Could be half-dwarf,” Bofur offered.

“No, he’s an elf all right. A damned elf.”

“Maybe it’s not so bad,” Kili said. “Of course we’re enemies with the elves, but Prince Legolas did help us fight the spiders and the orcs. He doesn’t seem a bad sort. And,” he added with a sly look at Thorin, “he’s good-looking enough.”

This brought half the company, repulsed by the look of all elves, up in arms. It was a while before Thorin could settle them again.

“How did you form a soulbond with him anyhow?” Fili asked. “Forgive me, but I think we would have noticed a marriage ceremony.”

Thorin groaned and rubbed his head. “I don’t quite know. We did prove our willingness to die for each other in battle, I suppose—or at least to fight for each other, which is close enough when you’re fighting orcs and wargs. Then the prince was bleeding, and he had a stone arrowhead in him, and I used a metal knife to cut it out…”

“But the wine,” Bofur said, “we don’t have any wine.”

“These barrels stink of wine enough for ten soulbonds,” Bofur said curtly. It was the first comment he’d added to the conversation.

Bilbo Baggins, who had been listening quietly as well, politely coughed. “Pardon me. This is all fascinating, but, what’s a soulbond?”

A good long hour was wasted on his jumbled education, shouted from one barrel and another. Thorin went back to paddling, and deliberately not thinking about how lovely Legolas looked when he slept, and how easy it would be, even now, to kiss him.

* * *

When Legolas woke, it was to someone gently shaking him. Tauriel, he thought vaguely, or a brother in arms. Yet when he opened his eyes and saw the face of Thorin Oakenshield, he was somehow not surprised. Instead, he felt oddly content. Of course it was Thorin. As it should be.

“Prince Legolas,” Thorin said, “I’m sorry to disturb your rest. But this man here thinks me and my company are kidnapping you. Please tell him you are traveling with us of your own volition so he will take us across the thrice-damned lake.”

The man in question was tall and dark, and introduced himself to Legolas as Bard. He was apparently from Lake-town and owned a barge. He asked Legolas if he could confirm Thorin’s story. Legolas squinted. He was confused and conflicted. The last thing he remembered was orcs attacking, an arrow in his thigh, a rushed escape attempt—but of course, he hadn’t been the one trying to escape, had he? No, of course not.

Common sense dictated that he tell the truth—he wasn’t traveling with Thorin Oakenshield, and the whole company was, in fact, on the run from Mirkwood’s forces. His elven instincts also told him to deny association with any dwarf. But, but, but…

He looked at Thorin. Thorin clasped his shoulder (he was still seated—otherwise Thorin would have had a hard time reaching it). “We are comrades, Prince Legolas, are we not? Tell the Man.”

“Yes,” Legolas agreed. “We’re comrades. We’re…” They were on the shores of the Long Lake, he recognized it. They must have followed the river to its end, taking Legolas with them. He felt an odd pleasure at this fact. “…we’re traveling together. I know they look suspicious, but they’re harmless, really.”

“Harmless,” Bard drawled.

“You have my word on it,” Legolas said. “I’m Legolas, prince of Mirkwood. My word is good.”

“So it is,” Bard said. “Very well. But they won’t like dwarves coming to Laketown. You’ll have to get back in the barrels eventually. For now, get on.”

Legolas had to be helped onto the barge. The wound in his thigh was still bothering him. Still, he managed to hobble, and settled down at the end of the barge where all the dwarves were congregating into a little huddle. There he sat, head slowly clearing, as the barge left the shore and headed out onto the Long Lake.

He wanted to ask the dwarves why, exactly, they’d dragged him along, but after saying to Bard that he was here of his own doing, he worried about being overheard. Also, he felt like it would show vulnerability, doing that. Asking questions you didn’t know the answers to was a dangerous thing—he’d learned that time and again when questioning his own father. You could get answers you didn’t like, lies, or straight out mockery, none of which he had the energy for at the moment.

He felt vaguely that the answer was in front of his nose somehow. Like he knew it already, like he somehow belonged here or had always meant to go traveling with them from the moment they met. Factually inaccurate—he clearly remembered that before he’d fainted, he’d been thinking mostly about dragging the whole squad of them back home, especially Thorin…

And with that, he remembered. The shock to his system, the moment of immersion. His gaze snapped to Thorin, and he found Thorin looking at him already. When their eyes met, he could feel the energy crackling between them. He wanted to get up, despite his injury, and grab Thorin, hold him close. He wanted to, wanted to, wanted to do something, hard to say exactly what. It wasn’t quite arousal, this feeling, though it wasn’t far off. It was something more peculiar than that.

He looked Thorin in the eyes and felt a tug of something. Amusement, curiosity, annoyance, and a hint of possessiveness… all feelings that he could identify in himself regarding the dwarf, only these feelings felt foreign to him. They weren’t his.

Thorin spoke in a low voice. “You feel it too, Prince Legolas?”

He lowered his eyes, breaking away. But the foreign feelings persisted. “Yes,” he muttered. “What sorcery is this?”

“No sorcery,” Thorin said calmly. “As to what it is, you know as well as I do. What is it elves need for a soulbond to take—blood, wine, water, and wood?”

Legolas swallowed.

He’d been talking about it with Tauriel just the other day. It was too great a coincidence, or else perhaps fate. But, but this wasn’t something he’d wanted with anyone particularly, much less with a dwarf.

“We have had a case of bad luck, it seems,” Thorin said. “But we’ll make the best of it. At least you’re a warrior. Perhaps you will be of some use to the company.”

His tone was dismissive, but through the bond, Legolas could feel unease. And something that belied Thorin’s words even further: a furtive but fierce desire that matched Legolas’s own.

Still, Legolas couldn’t allow the words to pass. He could see the eyes of the twelve other dwarves on him, and the eyes of a Halfling who seemed to have joined the company as well. (A lot seemed to have happened since he fell unconscious.) He took a deep breath to calm himself, and then spoke. “I have no desire to be bonded to a dwarf.”

“Nor I to an elf,” Thorin retorted, but when the other dwarves huffed in agreement, he glared them into silence.

“…however,” Legolas continued, “a soul bond is not something to laugh off. Come back with me to Mirkwood, and we will talk to my father about this. He has much experience with soulbonds.” Bitter experience, but experience nonetheless, and he knew much about magic that was beyond Legolas’s ken.

He might even be able to break this soulbond.

If they wanted to break it.

Which Legolas wasn’t sure he was, but, he thought, before he had this soulbond, he wouldn’t have wanted it, so it would probably be for the best.

Regardless, Thorin laughed at the suggestion. “We just escaped Mirkwood, elf. We will not be returning.” He looked out across the lake. “We must reach the Lonely Mountain before Durin’s Day, and there is not much time left.”

“So you still want to rouse trouble in Erebor.”

“We want to take back our home.”

Legolas was a two thousand year old being. He had only known Thorin personally for a handful of days. And yet, he felt like the headache this dwarf gave him had a quality of eternity about it. “Since you seem to have dragged me along on this mission, perhaps you could explain more about the particulars.”

Thorin’s lips thinned.

The Halfling, sitting across the barge a ways, said, “Thorin doesn’t like telling people things. Balin, how about you explain?”

Balin cleared his throat. “Well, now…”

“I’ll explain,” Thorin said abruptly. “But listen carefully, elf. And do not take my words lightly.”

And so he explained their mission, very quietly so that Bard would not hear. Apparently this quest was meant to have some level of secrecy, and not only from elves. That or Thorin just thought that a Lakeman might object to him possibly waking a dragon only a lake’s distance away from his home, which was sensible enough.

It was a foolhardy mission, certainly. Stealing from a dragon. Imagining that possession of the Arkenstone would be enough to rally all the dwarves of Erebor, now scattered. Imagining that even all these dwarves together would be enough to defeat Smaug head-on—or that they could hold together when the darkness now rising in Dol Goldur finally decided to show its full force. All of it very stupid.

But Legolas was not, on his own, enough to stop thirteen dwarves and a Halfling from doing what they would. Not without killing them all—he supposed he could do that. (No, no, he really couldn’t.) So what was there for him to do? Return to his father, and sit back and wait for the soulbond to break with Thorin’s death?

That, also, was impossible. Thorin was his soulmate, and soulmates, no matter how unorthodoxly acquired, were meant to protect each other.

And besides, Legolas had been itching for a real fight for years. True, he had mostly wanted to storm Dol Goldur. But Smaug, too, was evil lying dormant. And he, too, did not deserve to be left in peace.

“Fine,” he said. “I guess I’ll not be able to persuade you to abandon this quest. Very well, then; I will join you and do what I can to help.”

“We don’t need any elf’s help,” one of the dwarves said grumpily.

“We don’t,” Thorin agreed. “But I’m glad you’re coming with me.” He stood, and walked over the swaying deck to Legolas’s side. “You are not what I expected, but I have been waiting for my soulmate to come to me. I will win back a home for you in Erebor. This I swear.”

Legolas did not need a home, much less an underground castle. But the sincerity of Thorin’s eyes burned him, and he nodded mutely. This seemed to satisfy Thorin, who once again sat down.

It seemed to Legolas that he was sitting much too far away. They were soulmates, weren’t they? What need to put so many feet between them? (Only a yard, actually, but still too much.) Thorin had stood so close to him, and looked at him. There was an itch under his skin. He longed.

And so, when Bard informed the dwarves that they would all have to hide in barrels again, he hobbled towards Thorin’s, only for Bard to stop him with a hand on his shoulder. “Dwarves are not welcomed in Lake-town, but elves are. You may be of help in getting us past.”

And so, Legolas reluctantly sat back down, and allowed Thorin to snuggle with a load of fish instead of him.

* * *

Legolas was useful, as it turned out. Alfrid, the man checking the barge, clearly despised Bard, but for the prince of Mirkwood he was all servility. It made Legolas cringe, but he accepted it nonetheless. It got them into the city, fish, barrels, dwarves, and all.

From there, they were brought to Bard’s house. Legolas was still hobbling, but he swore he was feeling a little better. Thorin and the big grumbly dwarf—Dwalin, he said his name was—supported him up on either side despite his protests. It made him feel warm, like when he and his brothers and sisters in arms sat around campfires and sang old songs in Elvish. An odd feeling to get from a pair of dwarves.

Bard’s house was simple, but it too was warm, and there were three children running around in it. It had a homey feeling. Legolas, feeling tired again after a day in the barge, took a bed in a spare room when it was offered, and fell asleep almost immediately.

But he had not slept for too long when he became aware of a presence in the room with him, and stirred. Thorin was standing in front of his bed, and when Legolas’s eyes opened, he climbed into the bed with him, under the blankets.

Legolas murmured, “It is late, Oakenshield.”

“Yes, but I will not be able to sleep yet.” Thorin put an arm around Legolas; it was thick and strong and warm and everything Legolas had imagined it to be. “I feel your feelings, elf. I know you have been longing for me just as I have been longing for you.”

“Yes. It is the soulbond, of course. Otherwise I would never feel such desires. Not for a dwarf.”

“Of course. And I would never desire an elf either. But whatever the cause, the need is there within us. I will not be able to rest until it is satisfied.”

Legolas sighed.

He was two thousand years old, more or less—at some point he’d lost track—but he very rarely felt physical attraction. Even when he did, he rarely acted on it. It had been hundreds of years… But this desire was of an intensity not to be borne.

“Do what you wish with me, then,” he said, running a hand through Thorin’s long, thick hair. “Since you have disturbed my rest as well, I doubt I’ll be able to get back to sleep for some time.”

Thorin huffed in half-grim laughter, smoky and intent. “Don’t worry. I’ll tire you out.”


	3. Chapter 3

Thorin and his company acquired their supplies rapidly and forcefully. First they attempted to steal them, and when this failed, Thorin made a grand speech in the middle of town about how much gold he’d give Lake-town if they’d help him of their own free will, free of any current cost. All this Legolas watched without intervening, half impressed and half concerned.

“You seemed sincere when you spoke to the crowd,” he said to Thorin as they walked away with a couple watchmen, out to see what boat the city would offer them. “Through the bond as well as in appearance.”

“I do not lie or make false promises,” Thorin said curtly.

“So you truly intend to give this city a share in Erebor’s gold? That is very generous for a dwarf.”

“I know elves believe that dwarves are only capable of hoarding more and more riches for themselves, but I assure you, we know how to be generous as well,” Thorin said. “But at any rate, for Erebor to become a center of culture and trade would of course benefit Lake-town. There would be more business for them then; they could get very rich.”

Legolas’s lips quirked. “So the people will get rich on trade, then—that is what you meant.”

“They may take it as they please. The return of dwarves to Erebor will be good for them as it will be good for the world,” Thorin said devoutly, “but more importantly, it will be good for my people. I don’t appreciate your skepticism, either.”

Despite their arguing, they walked very close together, Legolas’s arm around Thorin’s shoulders for support. He had gotten over the embarrassment of being injured and so accepted the help willingly. Thorin, also, seemed to have embraced his desire to embrace an elf and had given up pretending otherwise. Fucking had not eased the soulbond’s grip on them, or made them desire closeness less. If anything, the pull had grown stronger. But they also had grown a little more comfortable with each other after the act. Legolas felt a little more settled in his own skin, and he could tell Thorin felt the same.

(The other result of sleeping together had been many, many sidelong looks from the other dwarves and the Halfling, and more than one lewd or teasing comment, but these were all easily ignored, for they were clearly meant in a friendly spirit.)

But even though Legolas was feeling more relaxed today, and indeed ready to face the world with Thorin, no matter what terrible plans the dwarf had in mind, he was not entirely well. The leg injury still hounded him, and as the day had gone on it had gotten not better, but worse. Probably the strenuous exercise in part—he should not have been wandering the city with the company but had not been able to bear letting Thorin go robbing alone, and so had been on his feet for the better part of the day.

When they passed a bench he had to swallow his pride and ask to sit down a moment. Even sitting gave him a twinge in his thigh, and he gritted his teeth. What was worse was that the pain was not clean, but lingering and achey and sickly. He pulled up the leg of his pants to take a look and was dismayed to see, even as far down as his knee, the flesh paler than he was accustomed to, and even, a little higher up, slightly blue…

“That does not look good,” Thorin said. His tone was even, but through the bond Legolas could feel worry brewing.

“It’s not. The arrow must have been a Morgul blade. Thorin, what did you do to heal the wound while I was unconscious?”

“Not much. We were running for our lives, and I couldn’t clean it in river water—Mirkwood’s water does not always have good effects. I took the arrow out and bound it.”

“A piece of the arrow must have gotten stuck in me,” Legolas murmured. A chilling thought. “The orcs do make their arrows barbed—it’s still in my flesh, then, and trying to poison me.” And given enough time, it would most likely succeed.

He took a deep breath to clear his head. “Well, it’s not too late. I know a little of healing, though not as much as some. With athelas and some proper care, I will be healed within a week.”

Thorin grunted. Then he turned to the rest of the dwarves, who had gathered around behind him. “I have to see to the boat and the supplies. Fili, Kili, see the prince back to Bard’s house. He may be angry with us but he’ll still grant a wounded man shelter—or if he doesn’t, we’ll have words later. The rest of us will be with you soon.”

Legolas was somewhat annoyed to be sent back to Bard’s house like a piece of unwieldy luggage, but he assented. He was far more annoyed that evening when Thorin informed him over dinner that the company would be setting out to the Lonely Mountain the next day without him.

“Thirteen dwarves and one Halfling are not much to face the mighty Smaug,” he said. “Wait a week, and I will be able to come and help you.”

“Durin’s Day is the day after tomorrow,” Thorin said, “and the lake is wide, and will take some time to cross. And one elf would not be enough to make a difference if Smaug wakes up and decides to eat us all.”

“Wait a year, then,” Legolas retorted. “Durin’s Day will come again. I will rally my father’s forces…”

“I said once that I would accept no help from Thranduil, and my stance has not changed. Besides, this is a job for a thief, not for an army. For now, we only want the Arkenstone, and enough gold to fund us for a while, until we can raise the dwarves. Then Smaug will die; for now, the Arkenstone.”

“Well then,” Legolas said, “in a year I will play the thief for you. My step is light.”

Bilbo Baggins, the Halfling, cleared his throat at this. “Not that I’m doubting you, Mr. Legolas, but I am an experienced thief with, with plenty of expertise. I stole the dwarves from your halls, didn’t I?”

“So you want to face a dragon?”

Bilbo said, “Not exactly, but as it’s what I’ve signed on to do, it’s what I’ll be doing.” His expression was utterly petty. He was one who knew nothing of dragon fire, and Legolas pitied him—he did not know what he was getting into.

He was about to say as much when one of the dwarves added, “Indeed! Do you have thief’s credentials, elf? Master Baggins comes highly recommended.”

“Who in the world recommends a thief?” Legolas said, by now more perplexed than angry.

Thorin said, “Enough. Legolas, we cannot wait a year. Dwarves do not live as long as elves, you know. A hundred years is not, to us, the blink of an eye. We like to get things done. So we will be leaving tomorrow, and you will be staying here.” He looked over the company. “Who will stay with him? We can’t leave my injured soulmate unguarded.”

Oin said, “I’ll stay. I know little of robbery, but much of healing.”

Dwarven healing was far inferior to elven healing, but Legolas held his tongue.

Thorin nodded. Then he turned to Fili and Kili. “Will you watch my spouse for me? I am uneasy at leaving him with Oin alone.”

After a moment’s hesitation, they agreed to do so.

Legolas needed no armed guard, and told Thorin as much the instant they were alone. Thorin sighed. “Long ago, my father sent me away from battle. He wanted to make sure our line went on if he died.” He clasped Legolas’s hand. “Guard my nephews. If we should all perish, this task will one day be theirs.”

Through the bond, Legolas could feel that Thorin was pleading. He was more worried for his nephews than he had thought he would be, now that they faced the greatest danger.

“Of course I will protect them,” Legolas said, “with my life. They are my flesh and blood.”

And for the first time, he saw Thorin break into a warm, wide smile.

* * *

Thorin set out with his company early the next day, with little more than a curt word to Bard and a few courtesies to the watchmen on the docks. His company, except for Oin, Fili, Kili, and Legolas.

He did not miss Oin overly much. He was a good comrade, and not unhelpful in battle. But he really was a medic, and would be more useful where he was. If the company fell to dragon fire there would be no time to put on bandages and poultices. They would die where they stood.

He did miss Fili and Kili, but he felt that he had made the right choice. He had brought them on this quest because they had a right to be here, reclaiming Erebor, and they were good warriors. But he meant what he said to Legolas. It would be good, for this most lethal portion of the mission, for them to remain safe. If he and Fili and Kili all died together, their line would die with them, and who would take Erebor back then? Who reunify the dwarves?

Most of all, though, Thorin missed Legolas. This, he told himself, was merely an effect of the soulbond. It was not that he had, in this brief amount of time, grown fond of the elf. Not at all. Though, he would be useful in a fight, and there was something steadying about his presence. And the night they had shared together had been nothing short of wonderful. And when he leaned close to Thorin, he smelled like a forest clean of infection, like Mirkwood might have long ago, like the fresh clean air after a rain. All of these were things Thorin missed. But he turned his eyes toward the Lonely Mountain, and did not think of them.

They had only a brief space of time to find the keyhole. Durin’s Day was coming, and he had a mission to complete for the sake of his people.

* * *

Although Legolas was of the opinion that he had not needed any babysitters, really, the three dwarves who had stayed behind with him at Bard’s house were probably the best options if he had to have any there at all. Oin’s knowledge of healing was actually useful—for example, he was able to fetch the athelas and pound it into paste according to Legolas’s instructions. And he helped Legolas to apply the paste as well, though he watched the rest of Legolas’s proceedings with more awe than competence.

“Truly, it is a great thing to see elven healing at work,” he remarked. “One hears stories about it, of course… but rarely actually sees it done.”

“I am no master healer,” Legolas said, “but I have the basic training.” Tauriel would have done a better job. Ah, Tauriel. If only she were here. He hoped his absence wasn’t causing too much concern back in Mirkwood, but they would know he was not dead—orcs did not steal a body, after all, besides which, Legolas was far too clever to get himself killed.

Kili interjected. “If it doesn’t distract you too much, and if the pain isn’t too great for you, can you tell how Uncle Thorin is doing?”

Kili and Fili were decent company, too. Of all the company Kili seemed the most supportive of his soulbond with Thorin, probably because he was Thorin’s nephew and knew Thorin’s loneliness from experience, and because he had taken a liking to Tauriel while in Mirkwood and thus was of the opinion that not all elves were that bad. Fili, on the other hand, was still wary, but he was at least polite, and seemed to think that Thorin’s soulbond was his own business but at least Legolas was a good ally.

Indulging Kili’s curiosity as well as his own worries, Legolas focused on the soulbond. “I sense anxiety, worry. They cannot have found the keyhole yet.” Durin’s Day was today, and he knew they planned to start early, even though in theory the keyhole would only appear at the day’s last light.

“Of course they haven’t,” Fili said. “Kili, why ask now? Anyway, until they go into the mountain, there’s little danger for them there. We all know how to climb.”

Kili shrugged embarrassedly and apologized for wasting Legolas’s time and energy. But he asked the same question again at lunch, and in the early afternoon, and in the evening, when Bard had come home from a day’s work.

Bard said, “I’m curious as well, Prince Legolas, how your company is faring. Though I can’t say I wish them well—they’re bound to bring chaos down on us all. Still, tell me.”

Legolas was a prince, but somehow Bard felt the more commanding. Maybe it was because this was his house. Either way, Legolas agreed easily. He’d been watching the soulbond closely all afternoon. The last light of Durin’s Day approached, though slowly. He focused. “I can’t say he’s happy.”

“Nor should he be,” Bard said drily. The three dwarves scowled at him; Legolas shrugged.

The soulbond emanated worry and anticipation, even desperation. The sun was almost down now, and apparently there was no keyhole in sight. Legolas bit his lip.

Maybe they would be heading back there with Legolas in another year after all.

The sun set. Darkness fell. Fili, Kili, and Oin looked at Legolas expectantly, but he could not find the words to describe the despair that flooded his soul. He said softly, “It seems they have not found it.”

Fili cursed. Oin abruptly left the room. Kili flopped down on a chair. As for Legolas, he pressed a hand against his leg, careful not to touch his wound. It was throbbing now with renewed ferocity—the emotional pain from the bond stimulated his nerves with pain more physical. He said out loud, “It will not be the last chance for your company to look, surely.”

(Despair despair despair. Nothing left but darkness.)

“If we cannot find the keyhole now,” Oin said quietly, “it may be that the keyhole itself is a myth, and will never be found. That will be what Thorin is thinking.”

“Then, another way in,” Legolas said, unsure why he was trying to encourage these dwarves to find a way into the Lonely Mountain when it was the worst idea he had ever heard in his entire life.

Oin and Kili and Fili all seemed to be be silently judging him, so he gave up. He sat back and basked in the pain of his leg and the pain of Thorin’s sadness, and missed Mirkwood. His home. Not that things were perfect there—indeed, things were quite bad lately, with the infestation of spiders and the way the forest in general had devolved into darkness and rot—but his friends were there, and he knew every tree, and when things were wrong, he knew what to do about them.

That, and he missed not having a damn arrow wound in his leg.

He sighed, and was about to sink further into the misery of the moment, when something new broke through on the soulbond. A feeling of… was this hope?

And even joy!

He sat bolt upright. “Something has happened. Thorin is excited. They’ve discovered something.”

Bard, who was still in a corner of the room, frowned. “The sun has been down for some time now. Surely they can’t have found the way in.”

“No, they’ve definitely found something.” The euphoria coming through the soulbond was almost enough to erase the pain in his leg entirely. He focused, senses and empathy on high alert. “I can’t say what it is, but…”

There was a sound on the roof. A thumping, a scratching. He might not have heard it if he hadn’t been so concentrated, but there it was.

He opened his mouth to ask what it might be, and an orc came crashing through the window.

Someone—Legolas couldn’t tell who—screamed. The orc laughed and drew its sword. Legolas leapt to his feet, only to stumble when pain shot up straight from his thigh to his hip. He fell to the ground, gasping.

Kili and Fili had drawn their swords; Oin was casting about for a large blunt object. Bard had disappeared, likely running to get a weapon or find his children. There was still more thumping on the roof, and as Legolas pushed himself to his feet, the door swung open at the same time as the ceiling collapsed. Two more orcs, and all three of them were leering.

“Get me my bow!”

But of course the dwarves were busy defending themselves. Fili practically flung himself onto one of the orcs, and Kili and Oin were facing off against a second. The third eyed Legolas warily. Doubtless word had gotten around about the fighting skills of the prince of Mirkwood, slayer of many orcs, but here he was, wounded and unarmed, practically begging to be killed. The orc smiled and said, in the language of orcs, “Well met, elf prince.”

Where was his bow and his quiver of arrows? He spotted them across the room and dove for them, cursing under his breath at the stabbing pain in his leg. The orc was on him just as he grabbed the bow, and he had to use it to bash the orc across the head, forcing him back. It was a good thing the bow was well-built; a weaker bow might have smashed on impact. He slung an arrow and shot the orc through the neck, killing him almost instantly.

He shot Fili’s orc equally fast, but Kili and Oin’s orc was at a bad angle and he couldn’t manage it. He’d have to get back on his feet. And more orcs were coming in—the door was open, the window and roof smashed, there were far too many entrances to this room and no way to bottleneck the enemy…

He shot another orc in the head at the same time as an arrow sprouted through the same orc’s chest. He blinked, and in the brief time he was stupefied, another orc was on him. He barely dodged the orc’s ax. But it, too, fell from an arrow, and it was then that the source of the arrows entered through the broken window. Tauriel.

As Legolas gaped—but shot another orc; this was no time for astonishment—she threw knives at two more orcs, taking both down easily. With that, the last couple orcs in the room fled, and the room was cleared.

Of orcs, that is. Several more elves entered through the door, window, and broken roof, all bearing weapons: arrows, spears, swords, all sorts. All of them were grim faced.

Tauriel drew an arrow on her own bow and pointed it straight at Kili. “Drop your weapons,” she said. “I don’t want to kill you. But I won’t hesitate, either, if you make me.”

The other elves had their weapons pointed at Fili, Kili, and Oin as well.

The three dwarves looked at Legolas, who sat down in the nearest chair. Much better. “Do as they say,” he said. “Tauriel means no harm.”

“So you say,” Fili muttered, and Kili looked back and forth between Legolas and Tauriel with an expression of betrayal. But they all three laid down their weapons—Oin’s weapon having been a chair—and the tension in the room slightly lessened.

Tauriel said to Legolas, “My prince, we were worried about you.”

“I’m sorry to have worried you. I have been fine, apart from a wound from our battle at the river. An orc arrow—but it will mend.”

“I should have protected you better,” Tauriel said. “Forgive me. As for these ruffians who have kidnapped you, they will see punishment.”

Legolas laughed, a bit raggedly. He was still tired from the fight. “Kidnapped me? No, they did no such thing. They merely…” Removed him from the forest while he was unconscious and then wheedled him into joining them on their quest. Actually, he could see where the confusion would arise. “They’re friends now.”

“Friends? You, friends with dwarves?” Tauriel clearly did not believe this.

Legolas couldn’t blame her. In fact, he felt a little horrified that he had uttered such a statement in the first place. But how else was he to explain this? “I know it’s irregular, but you see, their leader—Thorin Oakenshield—and I have formed a soulbond.”

Tauriel’s expression went from disbelief to a complete lack of comprehension. “You and Thorin Oakenshield what?”

* * *

Far away across the lake, Thorin paced irritably in a tunnel. He could not appreciate the moment of wonder at returning to Erebor or even focus on the probable fate of Bilbo, who had already gone in to search for the Arkenstone, because his soulbond was being too distracting.

All day it had been sending him dull pain, but he was used to that—in fact he rather wondered what it would feel like when Legolas’s wound healed and he could sense subtler emotions from the elf instead. But a few minutes ago he’d felt a spike of panic, then the adrenalin rush of battle, the lethal intent… which had now faded into quiet stress and embarrassment.

He had no idea what was going on in Lake-town but had a feeling those he’d left behind were getting up to things he wouldn’t approve of. Even though he’d spent months—years!—making his way to Erebor, he felt the sudden urge to get back to Bard’s house and check up on those four.

He was… he was worried.

And Bilbo was taking too long, and there were strange noises coming down from below. He huffed, turned to Balin, and said, “I’m going in.”


	4. Chapter 4

“Thorin and I—hold on.” The soulbond had suddenly vibrated with something stronger than the residual worry it had settled into. Determination, only the slightest amount of fear. Legolas closed his eyes. What was Thorin doing now?

“I really think we need to hear the end of that sentence,” Tauriel said, crossing her arms.

“I already said it once,” Legolas snapped. “We have a soulbond, and right now it’s doing something strange. Hold on.”

Ignoring the weapons pointed at them, Fili, Kili, and Oin ran to his side. Fili said, “Is he hurt?”

“No.” Just about to take some decisive action, and Legolas had a feeling that whatever choice he was making, it would be a bad one. He gripped the arms of his chair; his brow furrowed. “Thorin…”

Tauriel was staring at him. All the elves were, in fact.

And then… he sensed wonderment, awe, and a sudden well of… anger? Suspicion? Greed.

It was something like the possessiveness Thorin felt around Legolas, except bad. More motivated by fear. Legolas narrowed his eyes. They said the caves of Erebor were filled with gold and other treasures now. For a dwarf like Thorin who had been denied any sight of such riches for decades, who had dreamed about them and about his home for years, who had that urge to possess running deep in his family, deep in his bones…

It might be overwhelming.

He tugged sharply at the soulbond, as if he were twanging the string of a lute. He wanted Thorin to snap out of it. Smaug was probably down there, danger was probably down there, and besides, Legolas didn’t like this feeling. It felt wrong.

For a moment he played tug of war with the paranoia, and then it eased off, leaving only some wonder, some bemusement at feeling Legolas so present in his mind, and then a wave of complete and utter panic.

Legolas’s breath caught. “Smaug.”

Without thinking, he jumped to his feet. It hurt his leg, but he braced himself against a table and began to head to the door. “We need to go help him. He’s in danger.”

But the door was blocked by roughly five elves, and the window was about the same. Tauriel touched his arm. “You’re hurt. Tell us where Oakenshield is, and we’ll find him for you. We have business with him anyway.”

“You’ll hurt him!” he snarled. Panic, panic, panic…

“I swear to you we will bring him back to you safe,” Tauriel said. “Now tell us where he is.”

Tauriel. He usually trusted Tauriel. Any help was better than none. “The Lonely Mountain,” Legolas said. “He went to the Lonely Mountain. I let him go alone.” With the company, but without his own aid, so what did that matter?

“He’s already at the Lonely Mountain?” Tauriel’s eyes widened. “Then we’re too late.”

“Don’t say that.”

Kili said, “Are they hurt?”

No, no grief, no pain, only fear that now had turned to adrenalin, the feeling of battle. But Legolas had trouble feeling the same centered calm when he wasn’t there to fight by Thorin’s side. He sank back down into his chair, fighting panic. “No one’s hurt yet. I need quiet.”

For almost an hour, the house was mostly quiet. Maybe twenty elves milled around the house, and there were more outside on the streets, chasing the orcs who had escaped and guarding the entrances. Bard and his children came in and talked with Tauriel and a couple others in low voices. Kili, Fili and Oin stood by Legolas’s side, and he told them over and over again that no one was dead yet, while he waited to see whether anyone would be.

At last he got the sense that Thorin had reached somewhere safe, for now. He massaged his temples. “…I think they met Smaug and have now escaped him. For a while they should be all right.”

“But we will not,” Bard said. He had been briefed on what was going on, and was not happy about it. “Not if Smaug’s anger has been roused against us.”

Legolas closed his eyes, trying to use Thorin to center himself. Then he pulled away from the bond. Why should he use that? He was an elf of two thousand years’ experience; he knew self control. The bond, if anything, was hindering him. “If Smaug attacks Lake-town, we elves will do our best to assist you. Stopping Oakenshield from trying was impossible.”

Bard snorted. “Impossible for a man who has a soulbond with him. You’re letting it control you, letting him ger away with murder.”

“Humans should not speak of things they do not know.”

“I know the old stories about soulbonds. They are a weakness.”

Only days ago, Legolas would have agreed with him. Even now, he agreed with him in theory. But he could not bring himself to say so. “Soulbonds can be a weakness or a strength,” he said instead, “depending on the participants, and on how they are used. Used rightly, they can be beautiful, intimate, the most precious form of marriage between two souls.”

“I’d never thought to hear you say such a thing, Legolas,” Tauriel said. “Has a dwarf changed your heart in less than a week?”

She was worried; understandable. They’d been comrades for hundreds and hundreds of years, and here he was acting irrational after only a few days apart. But, “I am not changed,” he said. “Only learning from new experiences. Do not worry about me, Tauriel.”

“How can I not worry about you,” she said tartly, “when you say you’re bonded to a dwarf?”

Kili sprang to Thorin’s defense. “My uncle would never misuse a soulbond. He is a good dwarf, and he has treated Legolas well. He even left us here to protect him, and helped to care for his injury. Do not insult him.”

Tauriel eyed him.

Legolas said, “It’s true that Oakenshield has behaved as well as he can, towards me at least. Really, you do not need to worry.”

“If nothing else, I’d worry about your father’s wrath,” she said. “He’ll kill Oakenshield for this—and then he may well kill me for letting it happen, and shut you up in the dungeons for a century.”

Legolas laughed nervously. “I’m sure Father will see reason.”

“And if he doesn’t,” Oin said darkly, “we’ll deal with him in due time.”

This got all the elves’ hackles up all over again, and it was hard work for Legolas to calm them back down. At last everyone settled, and since there was still no trouble that Legolas could sense over the soulbond, he decided to go to bed. It was possible there would be greater trouble on the morrow, and he would have to be well rested to deal with it.

* * *

On the morrow, the dragon Smaug attacked Lake-town.

Fire rained from his mouth, destruction as he had wreaked down upon the dwarves of Erebor in days past. The city was in flames, and many of its citizens fled—to the water, some, and others to the outskirts of the city. It looked as though his terror would kill half the city’s citizens before he was done, and destroy all of their homes. The wrath of Smaug was mighty indeed.

That he did not kill or destroy as much as he might have wished was due solely to the actions of Bard. For as Legolas, the three dwarves, and the rest of the elves all bustled around almost helplessly—shooting arrows that did not soar high enough or helping to put out fires only to miss others—he took out one big black bolt and shot Smaug in his weak spot, the single flaw in his mighty armor. Then Smaug fell into the lake with a great splash, and his reign of terror was done.

Legolas in later years would feel a bit embarrassed telling this story; he was an archer too and, being present, should have been able to do more. But at the time he was only very relieved, even overjoyed, at Bard’s success. He joined in the small crowd hugging Bard and praising him and wishing him well.

Bard pushed out of the crowd. He did not look so happy. “Much of the city is ruined,” he said. “We will have to move some of our people to Dale. And the dead will not walk again, despite all my heroism.” To Legolas he said, “Tell your dwarven soulmate I will have words with him soon.”

Legolas nodded.

(How odd, that he should be entrusted with this message rather than any of the dwarves, who were also nearby. Yet it felt right, to be treated as Thorin’s partner.)

As the people of Lake-town milled around, debating the best action to take in the aftermath of the disaster, the elves of Mirkwood offered what help they could. And at the end of the first day after the disaster, Legolas took Tauriel aside.

“We must send word back to my father. He must know what happened here—and perhaps we can send more people to help.”

“We should send word,” Tauriel agreed, “and you should be the one to carry it.”

Kili, who was lurking in the background as he often was when Tauriel was around, stepped forward at this. “We have plans to join my uncle on the Lonely Mountain,” he said. “Now that Smaug is dead, it is safe for even an injured man there. We must see what he plans to do now, and regroup.”

“You dwarves may do as you like.” Tauriel had given up on dragging them back to Mirkwood for the time being; Kili, Fili, and Oin were not the dwarven prey she really wanted anyhow. “But Prince Legolas is not one of your company, and he must go home. Thranduil still does not know what has befallen him. And he has duties in Mirkwood which, with what has now transpired, become all the more urgent.”

“Legolas is one of our company,” Kili argued. “He is Thorin’s soulmate, and our companion. We have shed blood together, and protected each other. He is ours.”

“Legolas would shed blood for anyone, against the orcs,” Tauriel said, “and he fights for Mirkwood. He will come back with me.”

Legolas cut in. “No, Tauriel.”

“No?”

He touched her arm. “Go back to my father and tell him what has happened here, and tell him of my soulbond with Thorin Oakenshield. He will understand my choice to stay here. My father… he understands the importance of soulbonds. He has his own experiences, after all.”

“But you are needed,” Tauriel said, disbelieving.

“I am needed by Thorin, too,” Legolas said, “and that call is stronger. But I will come back someday. For now, I must go to the Lonely Mountain. My soulmate awaits me there.”

She could, of course, drag him back to Mirkwood at arrow-point. He and the dwarves would not be able to fight off thirty elves, and the people of Lake-town certainly would not help them. But they were old friends, and besides that, he was her prince. Reluctantly, she agreed that he would have his way.

“But,” she said to Kili, “you are wrong in your claim that he belongs to you. Legolas Greenleaf is Mirkwood’s own. For now, you will have him, as deep magic compels him to be yours. But that will not last forever.”

When she had gone, Kili apologized to Legolas for intervening, but Legolas had in truth appreciated the support and told him so. “She is right than I am still an elf, and my father’s son. But for now, my path lies elsewhere, with you. And although I was at first hesitant, I find I am glad to take it and see where it leads.”

They set out across the lake the next day—in an abandoned boat, since no one would now willingly give the dwarves anything after seeing the destruction their actions had caused. It was cold. Kili and Fili and Oin sat clustered together, while Legolas sat alone at the helm.

He wanted to be warm, but in a persistent, prickly, picky and petty sort of way. He wanted, specifically, for Thorin to be there and for Thorin to hold him. The emotions he could sense through the soulbond at a distance were not enough. He wanted to be at Thorin’s side. He wanted to spend another night in Thorin’s bed. These few days of distance, short but chaotic, had worn him down—in truth, this was one reason he had refused Tauriel. He was not sure how much longer he could even stand being away from Thorin, missing him as much as he did.

But he focused on the feeling of the soulbond, on Thorin’s calm now that Smaug was gone and his content at being back in Erebor. And he listened to Oin quietly singing, and Kili and Fili eventually joining in, a song he did not know but that felt familiar nonetheless.

“Far over the Misty Mountains cold, to dungeons deep and caverns old…”

It was a gentle song in a way, almost a lullaby despite its melancholy lyrics. Yet it carried conviction in every note. And it went on and on. The couple times it referenced elves, the dwarves glanced at Legolas humorously, and he smiled back.

It was a song of homecoming. That was what this was, for the dwarves—going home. And despite the destruction they had wrought, Legolas was happy for them.

* * *

When Fili, Kili, Oin, and Legolas were reunited with the rest of the company, the dwarves all hugged each other and slapped each other on the back, with some extra hugs for Bilbo as well. But Thorin swept Legolas into a long kiss, hard and passionate but happy. The kiss did not satisfy either of them in the ardent desire that overtook them in each other’s presence, but with the rest of the company gathered around, they put passion aside for the time being in favor of business.

The company described what had passed on the Lonely Mountain, Smaug’s conversation with Bilbo and the wonders of Erebor buried within the caves, largely still intact though flung here and there by the dragon’s carelessness. Kili, Fili, and Oin, on the other hand, described what had taken place in Lake-town, Smaug’s attack and the arrival of the elves. On hearing that Legolas had refused to return to Mirkwood, Thorin snorted, but he looked at Legolas with gratifying approval. Legolas, in turn, passed on Bard’s message, a request to have words later.

“There will be time enough for all that,” Thorin said dismissively. “For now, it is a time for celebration! We still have enough supplies from Lake-town to feast, and as all our news is good, there is nothing more fitting.”

Quite a few people had died in Lake-town; not all the news, therefore, was really good. However, Smaug was dead, and alive he might have killed many more in his time. So Legolas pushed aside any scruples and joined the others in preparing food and then celebrating until late.

After the party had died down, Thorin took Legolas aside. “Is your injury better?” he asked.

“Mostly. It will heal fully soon enough.”

“That’s good. I am glad you decided to stay with us.”

“There was no other decision I could make.”

“Still, I am glad. I have spoken to Balin about our soulbond, which has occurred at such an odd time, and despite neither of us trying. He is of the opinion that it is a good omen.”

“Indeed?”

“Dwarves can only form a soulbond when one can offer the other a home. Now I can offer you a place in the rebuilt Erebor. That is a fine thing.”

Legolas did not much like the thought of living underground—he was one for the forest, and fresh air. But when he thought of living with Thorin and Thorin’s people, he liked that. And that Thorin would have his home again; that was good indeed.

He kissed Thorin, and this time, they were well away from the party and able to do as they pleased. So they expressed their joy in the bond and in the future for some time, slowly and passionately.

“I have something for you,” Thorin said later. “I almost forgot.”

It was a thin necklace made of gold. He slipped it over Legolas’s head, and it rested around his neck.

“It matches your hair,” Thorin said. “I know you do not need it, for we are already bonded in blood and wine, water and wood, metal and stone. But I thought it would be a good symbol.”

“I will find something for you later,” Legolas said, “or perhaps carve something out of wood myself.”

Thorin winced, for he liked metal far more than wood in ornamentation, but then he grinned. “Very well, then. Another elven treasure for Erebor, just like you.”

Legolas shook his head in reproof, but he smiled too, and through the soulbond between them they both felt the peace and love that followed in the wake of a quest accomplished.


End file.
